Kindred Spirits
by M. Willow
Summary: A devastating loss leads Illya to confront his past. Can Napoleon keep him from going over the edge?
1. Part 1

**Kindred Spirits**

**By M.Willow**

**The characters from 'The Man From U.N.C.L.E' are not owned by me.**

_Plot Summary: A devastating loss leads Illya to confront his past. Can Napoleon keep him from going over the edge? _

_Authors note: I have to warn readers on this one. It's a dark tale which deals with Illya's past and prejudice in general. It's not quite a love story. It's a mystery. The words and deeds that occur in this story are sad. I hope they reflect life as it was in the past. Please take no offence in the words I have written._

**Part one**

**Chapter one**

The warm breeze ruffled the hair of the blond man sitting on the porch of the old Victorian house. Illya Kuryakin sat with a book in his lap and his eyes closed when he smelled the faint scent of perfume. He sniffed the air and opened his eyes, surprised to see a young woman standing on the porch of the house. He chided himself for sleeping so soundly that a woman had been allowed to approach without him even sensing her presence. Still, she hardly appeared dangerous. She was a little shorter than he with long brown hair, midnight blue eyes, and skin the color of buttered-honey. She wore a blue dress that intensified the deep blue color of her eyes. The woman smiled and spoke with a British accent.

"Excuse me, Sir. I seem to have a problem. May I ask for your help?"

He stammered as he rose from his chair. She was breathtaking. "Ah…ah, yes, of course. Illya Kuryakin at your service. What is the problem?"

"Well," she answered. "I was so stupid. I locked myself out of the house. Father won't be home until late tonight. I've no idea how I'm to get back in the house. I don't want to call someone in town. I saw you and thought…."

Illya realized that her accent wasn't British, but French. She had obviously learned to speak English with a British accent the same as he. He put those thoughts aside as he realized that he was just standing there gawking like a school boy. The woman waited patiently as if she had all the time in the world. Illya forced the silly grin he knew he had to be wearing from his face and spoke,

"Where do you live, Miss, Miss…"

"White, Lisa White. I live a few doors down."

"Ah, Miss White. Is that White as in Roy White, the proprietor of 'Old Roy's General Store'?" Illya asked then cringed when he realized he had given the slang version of the store's name. It was actually called 'Roy's Grand Emporium', but everyone in town called it simply 'Old Roy's'.

Lisa lowered her eyes and Illya could see the slight smile as she attempted to hide her amusement at his obvious discomfort. She spoke, her voice almost lilting as she looked at him.

"Why, yes. He's my father. And please call me Lisa." She offered her hand and Illya clasped it shaking it apologetically.

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Lisa," Illya said, noticing his accent had become more British in the small time they had become acquainted.

Illya continued to hold her hand, faintly aware of her scent, and the smoothness of her hand. She was feminine in the way women had been feminine in years past, with her blue dress, softly accented with lace, pearls that glistened around her neck and the almost imperceptible dab of makeup. She was a woman from another time.

He reluctantly released her hand, attempting at the same time to clear his head. He was in a committed relationship and smitten by a beautiful, young woman at the same time. So Napoleon, he almost said aloud. Instead he said," Let me retrieve some tools. I'll be right back." He turned and went into the house.

He couldn't believe how beautiful she was. He wondered if that was why Napoleon had spent so much time at the Victorian house of late. He kicked himself for acting like a school boy. He was normally pretty aloof when it came to meeting women. Now, he was stuttering. He scolded himself; he was, after all, involved in a relationship with Carolyn. And he was no Napoleon.

He retrieved his tool box and returned to the porch. Lisa was standing there, her blue eyes looking at him expectantly. He couldn't help but notice the way the sun revealed the subtle auburn highlights of her hair.

"Lead the way. We'll have you in your house in no time," he said.

They walked past several houses all with perfectly manicured lawns. Illya wondered at the marvel of OakWood. It was a tiny town, not far from New York. Napoleon had purchased the Victorian house to put down roots nearly two years ago. Unfortunate events had taken place in the house which lead Napoleon to maintain his New York penthouse apartment while keeping the house in OakWood as a retreat, mostly for his two best friends— April and Illya who loved the house. The arrangement was more than pleasing to the Russian who came here to catch his breath between assignments. Illya relied on this world of birds and flowers, and women who were like the delicate women of yore to erase the tragedies in life.

Lisa turned into the driveway of a small Victorian house. The house was small in comparison to the other houses on the block and somewhat older. It had a tiny porch with a single large swing and two white, wooden chairs.

"Well, this is home. Now if you can only get me inside."

Illya walked up to the door and inserted a small lock pick in the keyhole. He turned the knob and the door opened.

"Oh, my goodness," Lisa exclaimed. "I never thought it would be that easy. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome, Lisa."

"Would you like to come in and have something to drink? Tea perhaps?" she asked.

Illya thought about it for a second. Maybe it's best to walk away from her now. What could he offer the girl? He was involved and rarely in town. When he was in town, he was often recuperating from injuries. He couldn't marry her, because UNCLE prohibited marriage for field agents. Yes, it was best to leave her alone. But when he answered, he found himself saying yes and entering the house.

The house was surprisingly well decorated. Illya had expected that Roy would live in a home populated with old, drab decorations in keeping with his usual demeanor. Instead, he was ushered into a living room with a large fireplace dotted with pictures on the mantel, two over-stuffed, white chairs, blue-green scattered country rugs, and a sofa dressed with blue silk pillows. Illya nodded his approval. The decorations were unique, not something you'd see in any design shop.

"You have a lovely home," he said.

"I did most of this myself," Lisa said. "You should have seen it before. I love my father, but his taste in décor leads a lot to be desired. He tends to believe if a piece is still functional, it's good enough for him."

"Well, you've quite a talent," he said as she led him to a sofa near the fireplace. Illya sat down and Lisa went into the kitchen to prepare some tea. She returned a few minutes later with a serving tray containing two steaming mugs and sat down on the couch next to Illya.

Illya took a mug and sipped the strong tea. Lisa grimaced, "Oh, I forgot the sugar and cream. I prefer nothing in my tea. I sometimes forget that not everyone likes it that way.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," Illya said, taking another sip. "So, Lisa, I've never seen you around here before. Have you been away?"

"Yes," she answered. "I've lived in Paris most of my life. My mother died recently and so I came to live with my father."

Illya had never met a Mrs. White, so he was immediately sorry for having inquired. "I'm sorry for your loss and forgive me for prying,"

"No, it's okay. My mother and father were married briefly, but divorced shortly after my birth. Mother and I were never close. I spent most of my life in boarding schools. I came with my mother each summer to visit her family in Mississippi, but I was never allowed to come here. Father would always visit me there, but it was always my dream to live with him one day. You see, I never really had a family." She paused, a wistful expression on her face. "Anyhow, father invited me after mother died so I moved here."

Illya immediately felt a kinship with Lisa. He, too, had been raised without family. He found himself wanting to know more about her.

"So what do you think of America?" he asked.

"It's a beautiful country in many ways," she said.

Illya noticed the sad tone of her voice.

"Why didn't you visit earlier? I mean with your father living here…" He kicked himself for prying yet again, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Lisa moved closer. At first he thought she sought the intimacy of being next to him, but then he realized it was probably the coolness of the house. Still, he didn't move when he felt her presence near.

A sadness touched Lisa's face. Illya was sorry he had brought the subject up. "Forgive me," he said. "I should not have asked."

"No, Illya. That's all right." She paused. "You're the first person I ever wanted to talk about this with. As you can see I'm mixed race. My mother was black. When they married twenty-five years ago, they both agreed to live in France. You see France is somewhat more tolerant than America, especially twenty-five years ago."

Illya was aware of the suffering of black people in America. Interracial marriages had been banned in most states until a few years ago. France had no such restrictions on marriages between the races. It had become the home of many blacks who tired of the constant presence of racism.

Illya also knew what it was like to suffer prejudice—a prejudice that solely existed because of hatred for a group of people. He had watched his family die at the hands of the Nazis when he was just a child. His was not a privileged place during those times. It was true that he had the blond hair and blue eyes of the Aryan, but he was small and still Russian and the Nazis made it clear that he was inferior because of it.

After his family had been killed at the hands of the Nazis, he struggled to survive. Days without food, without the love and companionship of family. In its place, the ugliness of war. He was seven years old and already an adult.

Eventually, the war ended and his life continued in a new fashion. He could never replace his family but he enjoyed a small amount of freedom with the recovered Soviet Union that saw the value in his intellect and provided him with education and opportunity. Yet it was a prison.

Illya tasted a bit of freedom when he was sent to Paris. It was there that he faced more prejudice only this time he was just ignored. He had left the prison of the Soviets only to face a new prejudice—hatred of him because he was Russian. Few people asked if he embraced the Soviet philosophy, few people spoke to him. He spent his nights without t friends. He was a hated man and he suffered to the core of his being because of it.

Eventually, Illya found himself in America at the invitation of Alexander Waverly. He came with the hopes and dreams of so many other immigrants. And maybe naiveté at the prospect of living in a land that claimed that all men were created equal, but the hatred followed him. He was still Russian and the Cold War was at its peak. Again he found himself alone. By now he had learned to turn a blind eye to the prejudice, to listen to the hateful words that proclaimed him an enemy and pretend he hadn't heard them. He became a man who pretended that he didn't need the world. He closed his emotions to the pain, and then Napoleon came along and his world reshaped itself—somewhat. For even his friend couldn't fight every time Illya was called a name, every time someone refused to work with him, or even sit down and share a meal with him. It was strange. Women threw themselves at him because of his looks, yet few would take him home to meet their parents.

Illya regarded Lisa again. She was beautiful, charming, obviously educated. Yet none of this would ever be shared with those who would hate. And unlike him, she could not pass. Illya always knew that a careful altering of his speech could allow him to pretend to be American. It was pride in his heritage that prevented him from doing so. Lisa did not have that option. Wherever she went, her color preceded her.

Lisa looked at him as if reading his mind. "Mr. Kuryakin, I'm proud of who I am. I love my African lineage and would not change it even if it were possible. I've lived in this country for one year now. OakWood is beautiful, but it has an ugliness that runs deep. Still, God made me this color and no one has the right to say that he was wrong."

Lisa's eyes blazed and Illya realized that she probably thought he felt sorry for her. To a certain extent she was right. He thought of the privileges he enjoyed by virtue of his skin color. He was proud of his Russian heritage. And he would never think of denying his ethnicity. Still, he could go anywhere and not fear rejection until he spoke. He had pitied her for not having the option of passing. Now, he could see that she did not want it.

"I apologize, Lisa. It was not my intent to imply that you would want to change the color of your skin. I really think it is quite beautiful," he said, blushing.

Lisa smiled. "Thank you. I'm sorry, Illya. I didn't mean to direct my anger at you. I can clearly see that you are not like that."

Lisa looked around the small house before continuing in a small voice. "Did you know we received death threats when I moved here? There were people who even refused to shop in Father's store. Only a desperate need for supplies, and the fact that his store is the only one for miles, prevented him from going out of business."

"Why do you stay?" Illya asked.

"Because I have a right to stay," She answered simply.

**Chapter Two**

The following weeks went by in a blur. Lisa and Illya were almost inseparable. Lisa was an aspiring photographer so she photographed OakWood with enthusiasm and it was contagious to the dour Russian who was starting to see OakWood in a different light. He found himself not just noticing the delicate color of a flower, but the soft folds that made it a flower. Being in Lisa's presence brought joy and calmness to his world. No matter what life had to offer by way of danger or impossible missions, Lisa could erase just by a brief smile or a comforting touch.

Illya had all but given up his apartment in New York and spent most of his time with Lisa. He was with her almost constantly as she photographed OakWood. She was planning to publish a book of photographs, put OakWood on the map she had said. Illya considered it a privilege to accompany her on her photographic excursions. He watched as she photographed the sad old man who bore the scars of another time. He watched as she photographed the little girls who danced in the moonlight. He watched her come to life as she spoke of the future. Interspersed between moments of joy was the ugly prejudice of OakWood. They were the talk of the town. Whereas Illya saw the beauty in their relationship, the town of OakWood saw a white man with a black woman. The Russian could not help but notice the glares of the population as they sat in restaurants or walked through the streets. Still, there were many who were friendly and it was these people who gave the Russian hope for the future.

Illya was starting to feel guilty about his unfaithfulness to Carolyn. He hadn't crossed the line with Lisa, but they were becoming closer and he knew that some hard decisions had to be made. He had met Carolyn a few months ago. Carolyn lived in Chicago, so visits were few and far between. Illya hated to admit it, but his relationship with Carolyn was purely sexual. They had little in common and spent most of their time in bed. He liked Carolyn, but the distance was making it difficult to have a normal relationship. In addition, she was insecure and needy, often asking the Russian to spend time with her that he could ill afford to spend.

Lisa was entirely different. She was fiercely independent—happy to accept whatever time they had together and she was understanding when he was out of town and unavailable. He'd never explained what he did for a living and she had never asked. In spite of the color difference, Illya felt that he had more in common with Lisa than any other woman. She was a kindred spirit— a woman who had suffered prejudice. A woman who had been raised without the love of family.

Lisa's father Roy seemed to warm to the presence of the Russian. He had lost his southern tinged accent to reveal a voice with strong echoes of the South Bronx neighborhood he grew up in. Roy revealed that he had only imitated the southern accent as a way to enhance the charm of the store he owned. He'd explained that people expected it.

It was another ending to a perfect day when Illya and Lisa sat before the roaring flames in the house she shared with her father. They both sat on the floor, staring into the fire as it changed colors and permeated the air with its smoldering smell of wood interspersed with the soft fragrance of Lisa. Lisa was radiant as she spoke of the beauty of the flames.

"I've never been able to capture the essence of fire. It can be beautiful or destructive, all at the same time. Think of how the old man's face was ravaged by such a flame years ago, yet I can't think of anything more romantic then sitting in front of a fireplace."

The old man was one of Lisa's frequent subjects. He was a quiet man, at least when Illya was around. Lisa said he had been burned years ago in the war. She described the suffering the old man endured because of his scars. His name was Edward Finch. He lived with his daughter in a small house on the other side of town. His burns were intensive causing lung problems and difficulty moving about. He relied on his unmarried daughter, Karen, for his care. His burns set him apart from his neighbors and he had no friends besides Lisa.

Lisa and Mr. Finch often spent afternoons together in the park. Illya was invited to sit with them when he was in town, but Mr. Finch seemed uncomfortable in his presence so he seldom went. Still, Illya thought of the old man as another kindred spirit, for all three of them suffered because of how the world perceived them. Illya recalled the surprise he felt at Mr. Finch allowing Lisa to take his picture until she explained that he just wanted people to see him, to not turn their eyes away the minute they saw his scars. They never look at him, Lisa had said, sadness in her eyes. Could you imagine a world where no one even looks at you? And Illya could not.

Illya's mind was brought back to the present. The light from the fire illuminated her skin, casting a warm glow that made her eyes sparkle. Lisa seemed strong yet vulnerable, and for a minute Illya felt strangely protective of her.

"So, do you find some of your subjects reluctant to have their pictures taken?"

"Well, I once tried to take a picture of the Klan headquarters here in town. They weren't to happy about it."

Illya looked at her in stunned silence.

"Wasn't that dangerous?"

"Of course, but I want to be a photographer who travels throughout the world and that includes even the dangerous areas. I may find myself in countries in the mist of war. Places like Viet Nam. If I can't deal with it here, I might as well know it now."

Illya was aware of the Klan presence in OakWood. It had taken the small group longer to discover he was Russian. But once the leader, Tom Horton, became aware, he made it clear that his presence was not wanted.

"Lisa, please be careful. They are a hateful group who would think nothing of hurting you just because of the color of your skin."

"I know. And I am careful. But you have to know, the dangers are everywhere. Not every bigot wears a white sheet and shouts hateful words. No, there are plenty who quietly ignore you, but would kill you just as quickly if given the chance."

"Is there anyone else who has given you problems?"

"Andy Dodd. He's a truck driver who's often in town. When I first moved here, he asked me out. I refused. He is the type of man who only wants one thing from a woman like me. I would have been something to be kept in the closet. Hidden. I didn't want that so I turned him down. He wasn't too happy about it. Now, every time I see him, he makes lewd remarks. I try to avoid him, but it's hard. OakWood is a small town and sometimes I work in the store."

"I can talk to him if you like." Illya offered.

Lisa smiled, lightly touching his arm. It sent shivers up his spine.

"Thank you, but I've got to fight my own battles and believe me they're numerous when you're black."

The two sat in silence enjoying the dancing flames of the fireplace, the soft crackles of the flame almost lulling them into sleep.

"I'm starting to feel deeply for you, Lisa." Illya said, avoiding her eyes.

"I know," came the soft reply.

"I have no right to be with you. I'm involved with someone else," the Russian continued. "Still, I can't help how I feel about you. I'm going to break…"

"Don't. You've know idea how our life would be. It's an impossible situation."

Illya looked into Lisa's deep blue eyes. "I don't care what others say."

Lisa stood abruptly. "I don't want us to have to go through what my parents went through. You don't know what it's like. You see, my father grew tired of living in Paris. He wanted to come home, be with his family. When I was two, they moved to New York. They couldn't even find a place to live and wound up living in a slum in a black neighborhood. Even there, they suffered. Ignored by most. No friends. Family that refused to accept them. It destroyed their marriage. Don't you see? It's not possible."

"Nothing is impossible if two people….,"

"No, you've no idea. We will not be accepted by whites, and blacks will only tolerate us. I will not see a child of mine suffer as I have. Not wanted by whites, tolerated by blacks. Always different."

Illya could see the strong resolve in Lisa's eyes. He didn't want to pressure her.

Illya looked sadly at Lisa. He took her hand. "I hope, one day, you'll change your mind. But I don't want this to affect our friendship. Can we at least remain friends?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Lisa smiled.

**Chapter Three**

In the end, Illya came to realize that he needed to end his relationship with Carolyn so he flew to Chicago to tell her in person. The woman hadn't been happy, cursing at him and making threats. Illya had tried to reason with her, telling her it was for the best, and that she would find someone else. Still, she had remained angry, demanding to know the name of the woman who had stolen him. She had physically attacked the Russian before he left. Illya wondered how Napoleon could juggle so many willing women, yet none had ever attacked him when he no longer wanted the relationship.

Illya returned to New York, never mentioning the incident to Lisa. He knew she wouldn't be comfortable if she knew that he'd ended the relationship with Carolyn. She may even see it as a way to put pressure on her. So for the most part, Illya continued to enjoy the platonic friendship he had with Lisa. He had practically moved to the Victorian house, spending most of his leisure evenings with the blue-eyed beauty. Sometimes they would spend the evening with Lisa's father enjoying a game of Parcheesi or simply watching television. Most of the time, Roy made himself scarce, giving the couple time to be alone. Illya couldn't remember the last time he had been this happy. He had started to believe that nothing could happen that would mare this happiness and then the first ugly incident occurred.

It was a cool, sunny afternoon as Illya stood watching Lisa photograph the old man when he saw a man purposefully stride toward them. He was immediately on alert and moved protectively closer to Lisa. He didn't know what to expect, but he was determine to protect the woman who was becoming more important in his life than he would like to admit.

The man who approached was large with piercing brown eyes and a thin mouth... He wore a short-sleeved tee-shirt that displayed a series of tattoos on each muscled arm. .He looked like a man who spent hours honing his body into a fighting machine and wanted to show it off.

"So, what do we have here? If it isn't salt and pepper. You know, I heard about you and the Commie bastard." The man said, looking at Lisa.

"Why don't you leave us along, Andy?" Lisa pleaded.

"Yes, I would strongly suggest you do so." Illya said with a steel edge in his voice, his blue eyes darkening as he spoke."

"Feisty little fellow, ain't you." Dodd said, laughing, his eyes glaring at Illya.

"Please, Dodd. There's no need for violence. Just leave us alone." Lisa was shaking in fear of the large man. She moved protectively in front of Illya.

Dodd laughed. "So the little woman gonna protect her man. That's the story? You need a woman to take care of ya?"

"Lisa. Go sit with Mr. Finch. He seems nervous." Illya said, never taking his eyes off Dodd.

"But, Illya" Lisa started.

"Do it," Illya commanded. He watched as Lisa turned and slowly walked back to the bench where the old man sat. Mr. Finch looked anxiously at her, grabbing her hand the minute she sat down.

Dodd instantly reached for the Russian, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. "Alone at last," he hissed. "What's a Commie doing hanging out with a …." Dodd never got to form the final word. Illya had kicked him in the shins sending the large man spiraling face down into the grass. Dodd squirmed and yelped in pain. Illya kneeled over him, grabbing his arm and roughly pushing it behind his back. From the corner of his eyes, he saw a crowd gathering. Lisa came and stood before the two struggling men.

"Now, I'm going to give you a choice," Illya said, ice in his voice. "You can offer an apology to the lady and leave, or you can stay here with me. The choice is all yours."

Dodd was shivering. Illya pushed harder on his arm. The man screamed in pain. "I'm…I'm sorry Lisa. Please make him stop. He's gonna break my arm."

Illya could feel the man shaking. He wanted to tear his arm from its sockets, but he looked at Lisa and saw the forgiveness in her eyes.

"Let him up, Illya." Lisa said.

"Yeah, listen to the lady. You're hurting me. I apologize to both of you. Didn't mean anything by it. I was just foolin'."

Illya reluctantly released him and stood. Andy stood, swaying lightly. He rubbed his arm and looked cautiously at the Russian.

"You're fit for a little fellow." The big man looked incredulously at Illya. "You know they should put a warning label on you."

"If I ever hear about you so much as glancing at Lisa, I'll find you and make sure you wish you'd never been born. Now leave before my patience deserts me." Illya said narrowly.

"Okay. Okay. You wont hear a peep from me. I'm going."

Dodd turned and walked hastily away. The crowd gathered around Illya, some patting him on the back.

"Bout time somebody did something about that bully," one man said.

"somebody finally taught that idiot a lesson," said another woman.

Soon the crowd dispersed leaving Illya and Lisa alone.

"I was so scared for you," Lisa said, throwing herself in his arms. "What was that, some kind of martial arts?"

"Something like that," Illya answered.

Illya still hadn't told her about his allegiance with UNCLE. Now the question begged to be answered and he wanted to be honest with her.

"We need to talk. Let's go somewhere and get something to eat." He said taking her arm. Lisa said goodbye to Mr. Finch who looked up as his daughter arrived.

**Chapter Four**

It was late in the evening. Illya had decided that privacy was needed so they'd gone back to her house and Lisa cooked. They had spent the meal in silence. Illya was so worried that Lisa would walk away once she found out what he did for a living. Now they sat before the blazing fireplace.

"I'm an enforcement agent with an organization called U.N.C.L.E" Illya started.

"I've heard of that organization," Lisa said clearly impressed by the knowledge. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to scare you." He wanted to say lose you, but he knew that it was inappropriate.

Lisa looked down at her hands. "I always thought you were a scientist or something. I don't know, you have that air about you and you're always reading those scientific journals. I didn't question you because I felt it was some sort of secret research you were doing. I never thought you were some sort of cop. It scares me that you could be harmed, but I would never stand in your way of doing something that so obviously brings you joy."

Illya was stunned. He had expected the knowledge that he worked for an international law enforcement agency to be disturbing, even appalling. Instead, he saw the honest pleasure in her eyes. He found himself falling deeply in love with her, although he knew the feelings were not shared.

"Illya, I think I'm falling in love with you and I don't know what to do about it."

Illya felt his voice catch in his throat. She felt the same way.

"Lisa, I know you don't want a ….."

Lisa took his hand, looking deeply into his eyes. The soft crackle of the fire surrounded them. "I need time to think. Can you give me that?"

"Yes, but please, give us a chance."

For the first time Illya took her in his arms and kissed her. It was a soft kiss but it sent shivers through the Russian's body. He touched her face for an instant, finding himself lost in her eyes. "I better leave,"

"Yes, but please come by tomorrow. We need to talk."

Illya stood and pulled her into another kiss, this one deeper and more sensuous. They broke apart quickly when they realized things were moving too quickly. Illya looked into her eyes and saw the love there. He turned and reluctantly left.

It was several hours later when he heard the pounding at his door. Illya had fallen asleep in the library and reached for his gun, cursing himself when he realized the gun was upstairs instead of by his side. Sometimes he became entirely too relaxed when it came to spending time at the Victorian house. He realized this could be a fatal mistake and resolved to remedy it in the future.

Illya got up and crept cautiously toward the door. He didn't bother to turn the lights on, he knew the house by hard now and leaving the lights off gave him an element of surprise. Still, who would be pounding on the door that loudly if he needed a surprise?

Illya approached the door cautiously, "Who is it?" He yelled. There was silence for a moment, but then he heard a quiet almost tentative voice.

"It's Roy,"

Illya relaxed and opened the door. Roy was standing there, face white, body shaking. He looked as though he was in shock.

Illya quickly ushered him into the drawing room and seated him on the large sofa. He poured some vodka into a large tumbler and handed it to Roy. "Roy. What's wrong?"

Roy sat there, staring straight ahead, the glass of vodka untouched.

"Roy. What has happened?" Illya asked again. He was becoming afraid.

"Where's Lisa?" Illya asked, panic rising in his voice.

Roy just sat there, his eyes straight ahead

"Where's Lisa? Is she okay?"

Roy broke down in tears. "My baby."

"You mean Lisa. What happened to Lisa?" Illya urgently demanded.

"She's dead." Roy said.

"Dead. That's impossible. I saw her just a few hours ago." Illya said this as if the mere act of seeing her earlier meant that she could not die. "How? Where?" he asked.

"I found her in the upstairs bedroom. At first I thought she was asleep. But then … I called her. She didn't answer. I went to her. Her eyes were open. Just staring. But her face…her face… How could she be dead?"

"Let's go. Let me see, Roy." Illya said with a shaky voice. He wouldn't believe it until he saw and maybe not even then.

The old man got up. It was as if he had aged twenty five years. Illya went upstairs and grabbed his gun. He locked the house and walked silently with Roy to his house.

"She's upstairs in the bedroom, the first door" Roy said as soon as they entered the house.

Illya had him sit on the couch and went up the stairs, his legs growing heavy with each step.

Lisa's bedroom door was closed and Illya didn't want to open it. To open it would mean losing her. If the door stayed closed it meant she was still alive and tomorrow they would meet, maybe have a picnic. Maybe… just maybe have a life together. But now, he knew that he had to walk into that room. He braced himself, the picture of cool professionalism.

He opened the door and saw a room bathed in moonlight with a single lamp burning on the table besides the bed. Lisa face was turned away from the door. Illya approached quietly as if his presence might awaken her, but he knew that it wouldn't. Even from this distance he could see the lifelessness of her body, the rigid way she lay. He braced himself and walked to the other side of the bed. It was then that he saw her face. Illya didn't believe it was Lisa, but then he saw the eyes—the midnight blue eyes he so loved. He recalled looking into those eyes for hours, getting lost in them. Now they were the only thing on her face left untouched. The gunshot had destroyed everything else.

Illya felt his body shake. He was aware of his surroundings--the distant sound of a train whistle, the soft cries of Roy. The smell of blood. Lisa lying in that blood. The blood seeping into the covers onto the floor, on the walls, his hands shaking as they checked for an impossible pulse. The hope dying with the dreams. He saw himself move, looking at the room through the eyes of a spy, noticing the smallest details, entering the information into his brain. He saw his hands shaking as some of the blood, her blood colored his hands. He turned, walking out of the room. He saw a phone and remembered how to dial, how to breath. And then he sat on the floor and cried like a baby, curled into himself.

The cops found Illya still sitting on the floor a half hour later. They'd come with a full crime scene team. A kindly coroner who went into the room and pronounced her dead and then checked on the two men who were so shattered that neither could talk.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Hamilton," the man said as he looked at Illya. "Are you the one who called the crime in?"

"Da," Illya said.

"Young, man we need to get you to a hospital." The doctor said while taking his pulse. Illya's pulse was racing and it worried the doctor. Here was a man consumed with the shock of death. He had obviously loved the woman. The doctor noted the gun Illya wore and for a brief instant he wondered if it had been he who shot her. But, no. Such a man would have fled into the night. He wouldn't be sitting on the floor crying and shaking.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" the doctor asked.

Illya didn't answer and the doctor wondered if he spoke English. He had answered in Russian. Doctor Hamilton knew Illya was Russian. He had seen Illya a few times in the store with the beautiful woman who had just died. He'd seen how enamored of each other they were. Now she was dead and he left a shattered man. He tried talking to him again.

"Who can I call?" he asked in Russian.

Illya looked at him for the first time.

"Napoleon, Napoleon Solo," and he gave him the telephone number.

TBC


	2. Part 2

**Kindred Spirits**

**By M.Willow**

**Part Two**

**Chapter Five**

Napoleon was nuzzling the neck of Evelyn Chambers. They had just retired to the bedroom after a splendid romp on the couch. Now he was more than excited to spend the night with the lovely woman when he heard the phone ring. He answered it reluctantly on the fifth ring.

"Please tell me this is not an emergency?" he said, still kissing Evelyn's neck.

"Mr. Solo," the voice was unfamiliar and formal. Napoleon instantly lost interest in Evelyn to her chagrin. She visibly bristled when he pulled away from her to sit straight in the bed, his attention riveted to the unfamiliar voice.

"I'm Dr. Hamilton from OakWood. I believe I have a friend of yours here. His name is Illya Kuryakin. He seems to be in shock after finding the body of his girlfriend."

"What happened? Where is he?"

The doctor explained what had happened while Solo got dressed. Solo had ushered Evelyn out and was in his car headed towards Oakwood within 15 minutes, his car racing and swerving through the streets with only one thought in mind—getting to Illya. He had called a doctor at UNCLE headquarters who was also on his way. This was done because the doctor had said that Illya was in shock, not even able to speak English. UNCLE had rules governing an agent's emotional state. If he for any reason was compromised the results could be devastating, therefore it was necessary for an UNCLE physician to be in attendance.

Napoleon reached the town of OakWood in record time. He parked the car and sprinted toward Roy's house. The cops were gathering evidence. Roy was sitting on the couch crying softly and Illya was still sitting on the floor, his face pale, his hands shaking.

Napoleon crouched down before the Russian. "Illya, can you hear me?" Illya stared vacantly at the door to Lisa's room. A tall man with grey hair and a thin face hovered nearby.

"You must be Dr Hamilton." Napoleon asked still watching his friend. The doctor came forward and leaned down toward the Russian.

"And you're Mr. Solo?" He asked.

"Yes. What's going on with him? He doesn't seem to know I'm here."

"I've tried talking to him with the little Russian I know, which isn't much. Apparently he hasn't spoken since calling the police. He has a gun, by the way."

"I know. We work for UNCLE."

"Yes. I'm familiar with that organization. I didn't think he looked like he had killed her, so I didn't tell the police."

"I appreciate that. Listen, I need to get him out of here."

"He needs medical attention. I'd advise taking him to the hospital."

"He'll have care. I've got a doctor meeting us at my place. I live a few doors down."

"I know. I've seen this young man and Lisa together many times. Such a tragedy."

"What happened?"

"Someone apparently gained access to the home and shot the young lady point blank in the face."

Napoleon took a shuddering breath, eyeing Illya who still sat on the floor staring blankly.

Napoleon reached down, pulling the blond up. Illya was shaking so badly that he could hardly stand. "Come on Illya, I've got to get you home."

"Napoleon, what are you doing here?" The blond spoke in Russian, the words difficult for Napoleon to decipher.

"Illya, can you speak English. You know Russian has always been a challenge for me."

"What are you doing here?" he asked in English. Solo gave a sigh of relief. He had thought the Russian had lost his hold on reality; still he didn't seem to remember Lisa dying.

"You had the doctor call me, remember?"

"Call…call…" his eyes glazed over. He looked at Lisa's door and collapsed in Napoleon's arms.

A few hours later, Napoleon sat in Illya's bedroom. He and the doctor had managed to get him upstairs and tucked into bed. Dr. Hamilton had checked his vital signs and reluctantly left. UNCLE's doctor arrived later and administered a sedative to the nervous Russian who had almost hyperventilated once he regained consciousness. Now, he slept peacefully in his bed.

Napoleon eyed the sleeping form of his best friend. He would suffer greatly when he awakened and had to face the reality of Lisa's death. Solo hadn't known how involved the Russian had become with Lisa. He was aware that the Russian was interested in the girl, but not to this extent. It was apparent to him now that Illya had loved her.

Solo realized the task ahead of him. The Russian had never been in love before—at least Solo didn't think he had. But Lisa's death my have been at the hands of a hate monger. Illya would expect justice, need it in fact, but could they hope for that kind of justice in a land that still allowed the guilty to walk when the victim wasn't white?

Solo thought of who might have wanted Lisa dead. The klan had a headquarters in Oakwood. Could they have come to her house in the middle of the night and killed her? But why hadn't they killed Illya? Why hadn't they simply waited and killed both of them as they slept? His friend had to be despised not only for loving Lisa, but for being Soviet. He looked at Illya. He was so vulnerable now. He looked like a child as he slept—so innocent of the life he would awaken too. Napoleon vowed to find Lisa's killer and protect his friend. Damn this town. How much more would they all suffer to live in a quiet suburb that was meant to relieve stress, not cause it. Yet it had caused stress and plenty of it. From the first week Solo moved into the Victorian house, Illya's life had been threatened. And then Solo had suffered at the hands of an impossible double of Illya. Now this. Yet his friends loved the house and so he had kept it. Kept it for April and Illya—his two best friends, his family.

Solo closed his eyes. He would need sleep for the days ahead. He would solve this crime and save his friend at the same time. In minutes he entered the dream world where problems are solved just by waking up.

It was the soft, almost unnatural silence of the house that awakened Illya. He struggled to consciousness, hearing the soft creek of the house as it settled and forgetting where he was. He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion at the room. He noted the soft lighting, the oriental rugs, and a fireplace. He sat up and saw a dark-haired man sleeping in a chair. He tried to get up, grasping the headboard as he stood on shaking legs. He crashed to the floor in a heap. The man approached him, stroking his hair, pulling him up from the floor. All so confusing. Who was he and why was he in this room.

"Illya," the man said almost shouting.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Illya said in Russian.

"Please, English. I can barely understand Russian. You know that Tovarish."

Tovarish. The man called him Tovarish.

"Can you understand me?"

"Yes. How did I get here? Who are you?" The blond asked in English.

"Illya, I'm Napoleon. You must remember."

Illya looked at him with confusion. He remembered nothing but the last few minutes and waking up.

Now, the dark-haired man seemed concerned. He kept calling him by the unfamiliar name. Finally, he saw the man pick up the telephone, dialing quickly and speaking to a doctor. He could understand English, but he didn't know why or how. His life was a blank and the man standing before him a complete stranger.

**Chapter Six**

Napoleon was pacing the floor in Waverly's office at UNCLE headquarters. They had called in a psychiatrist when Napoleon discovered the Russian couldn't remember anything. Doctor Hillgrave was a man of about sixty, with slate grey hair and a strong prominent chin. His piercing blue eyes watched Solo as he paced the floor.

"So, how did this happen? He seemed to remember me when we were at Roy's house?" Napoleon said.

"The type of amnesia he has is uncommon. I suspect the stress of the situation caused him to block out the memory. At any rate, the condition is probably temporary as it is in most cases of hysterical amnesia. He should recover within forty-eight hours."

Waverly cleared his throat, "And then what can we expect, Dr. Hillgrave? Understand Mr. Kuryakin is not one given to hysterics."

"He will need close monitoring."

"He won't want to stay here. I know that for a fact. And no way are we sending him to some mental institution." Solo added quickly.

"I'm not suggesting that. On the contrary, I suggest you take him to his apartment now. Give him someplace familiar to regain his memory. I would not suggest going back to OakWood, however."

Napoleon sat down facing the doctor. "What can I do for him?"

"You two seem close. Stay with him. Don't leave for a second. We don't know how he'll react when he remembers. He may feel guilty. He may be angry. We just don't know."

Waverly took a puff of his pipe, the blue smoke swirling in the air. "I had no idea Mr. Kuryakin had become so involved with the young lady."

"Neither did I," Solo said shaking his head. "When can I take him home?"

"The sooner the better," the doctor said.

Solo left the hospital with Illya late in the evening. They had returned to the familiar surroundings of Illya's apartment. It had been thirty hours since the Russian woke up in the bedroom of the Victorian house. Now, Solo watched as the Russian ate the steak he had prepared the minute they had arrived. The Russian ate hungrily, barely speaking as he eyed the American.

"I was afraid when you took me to UNCLE headquarters." Illya said suddenly.

"Why?" Napoleon asked. "I told you I was going to get some help for you."

"I was speaking Russian. I just naturally assumed that if I were in America…"

"Rest assured, you're one of the friendlees and one of UNCLE's finest," he smiled. "I just took you there to get some help for you."

Illya looked at his plate and then at Solo as he spoke, "Are we close friends?"

"Very. You're like a brother to me."

"I don't remember that?"

"I know. But you will. The doctor said this form of amnesia usually goes away within a few days."

"I know, he told me. Hysterical amnesia I believe. Brought on by some traumatic event."

The Russian looked down at his steak, his body visibly shaking.

"Listen, Illya. I'm going to be there for you. When you remember, I'll be there."

"What happened to me, Napoleon?"

"The doctor said that it would be better if you just remembered it. It could happen suddenly, but you'll remember."

"What if I don't want to remember," the Russian said in a quiet voice. "What could be so horrible that I would stop remembering my life, you, UNCLE, everything?"

"You'll remember and together, we'll get through it."

The Russian returned to eating his steak, a far off look on his face.

Illya had been tense when he went to bed and Napoleon had insisted upon sleeping in the room with him. If the doctor was right, the Russian could start to remember at any moment. Napoleon was afraid that Illya would be alone when it happened so he sat in the uncomfortable chair in Illya's room with his legs propped up on a foot-stool. Now he eyed his friend. The soft moonlight illuminated the silvery, gold color of his hair. Illya had been tossing and turning for the last few hours. Solo wondered what he dreamed about. A few times he wanted to waken him from his nightmare, but thought better of it. Perhaps the Russian was starting to remember. In many ways he would have preferred if Illya could somehow regain his memory without remembering the horrible incident that lead to its loss.

Napoleon had just dozed off when he heard the scream. It was like that of an animal trapped and in pain. Napoleon quickly got up, running to Illya's bed. Illya was sitting up, his eyes wide, screaming hysterically.

"Illya, it's okay. You're here with me. You're safe." Napoleon was lightly stroking his friend's hair, trying to stop the scream that wouldn't stop. He sat down on the bed, still stroking the Russian's hair. Finally Illya stopped screaming.

"It's my fault. It's my fault," he said repeatedly.

"No. Someone killed her. You had nothing to do with that, Tovarish."

"I could have stopped it. I knew the dangers. Don't you see I could have stopped it?"

The Russian was shaking, his eyes wide. "I'm going to find the killer. When I do, I'll make him pay. Pay with his life."

Napoleon didn't like the dangerous tone in his friend's voice. The Russian sounded like he planned to murder the killer, even if it was in cold blood.

"We'll find him together. He will pay by the hands of the law."

"There is no law for people like us."

Napoleon knew what Illya meant. His friend knew how blind justice could really be. Still, he needed to stop his friend from going on a path of vengeance.

"Illya, the law is for everyone."

Illya jerked his body back suddenly, his eyes blazing. "You think the law is going to care about a black woman being killed. You really think that anyone would care except the few people who loved her? No, Justice is not blind. Her killer was most likely a white man and that's no crime in a lot of places, and you know it."

And Napoleon couldn't deny the truth of the statement. It was just a few years ago when black's were being lynched and the criminals never prosecuted. It was just a few years ago when a church was bombed with black children inside.

Napoleon looked sadly at his friend, "We're going to see to it, Illya. We will make sure this killer pays one way or another."

He knew that he meant it. It was a promise of sorts. The same promise he had made to Illya when they had first became friends. He would not stand idly by while the world made their hatred for the Russian known. He had defended Illya at UNCLE and anywhere else he saw prejudice. Now, he would make that same promise to a girl who may have died simply because of the color of her skin.

Illya took a shuddering breath, "You've no idea what that means to me. You've know idea how I value our friendship, but if I do end up crossing the line, I don't want you with me."

"There's no way you can get rid of me. We're in this together."

The two men locked eyes--one white American who had access to everything the world had to offer and one Russian, who suffered the stings of prejudice. For now they were the same—they wanted justice.

**Chapter Seven**

Three days later Illya and Napoleon returned to the town of OakWood. They were sitting next to each other in the sheriff's office. Sheriff Albert Simmons was a large man. His small eyes and bright red hair made him a man not easily forgotten. Illya sat across from the sheriff listening to him as he related what he knew of the crime. Solo had identified himself to the man as an UNCLE agent and the sheriff had immediately warmed to the two agents. It was a typical reaction most law enforcement agents had when they realized they had a chance to work with UNCLE.

"She was a pretty little gal, wasn't she?" the sheriff said. "It's a shame, poor Roy."

"Yes. He's really taking it hard. Solo said. "Listen, I want to solve this case and I need any help you can provide."

"Well, it's not going to be easy finding her killer. Plenty of folks around here didn't appreciate having her around." The sheriff's eyes fixed on Illya "And plenty didn't like a white man hanging around a black woman."

Illya ignored the last statement. "I am aware of her mixed race heritage, but that doesn't mean we're not going to find her killer." The Russian said tightly.

The Sheriff raised a cease fire hand. "No, of course not, I'm not suggesting we sweep this under the rug…"

"But isn't that what you people do, sweep it under the rug," Illya said angrily, attempting to stand. Napoleon put a reassuring hand on Illya, pulling him back in the chair.

"You must excuse my friend. His involvement with the victim makes this all the more difficult," Solo said apologetically. He didn't want to antagonize the man. They needed all the help they could get.

They sheriff nodded his head in understanding. "I know. I saw you with the girl. Listen, not everybody is like the bigots. I'm not. I want to find this killer as much as you do."

"I doubt that," Illya said tightly, locking eyes with the sheriff.

"I can't change how you feel about me, but I'm on your side. I want this killer. He will be punished to the full extent of the law."

"And what is that extent," Illya asked?

The room fell silent. They all knew that the killer could be found and locked up, but it would be up to a jury and a judge to determine his punishment.

The sheriff closed his eyes, speaking quietly,"I get tired of chasing criminals, risking my life to arrest them, and then finding them on the street before I get off my shift. It's why I left New York and moved to this small town. Up until Lisa, all I had to deal with was an occasional drunk." The sheriff opened his eyes, looking at the two agents. "I will do everything in my power to see that justice is done for this girl. Come to me with anything, any assistance you need and it's there for you. Please don't judge me by what others in my occupation have done."

Solo looked at the sincerity of the man. He had come into the station expecting to see a man who wouldn't care because the victim was black. He felt badly for judging him before even laying eyes on him.

"I believe you," he stood, offering his hand. The sheriff took it, shaking his hand with a strong grip. The two agents left the station, heading in a direction that scared Solo more than anything.

**Chapter Eight**

The drive to the house went by slowly with Illya angrily talking about the bigoted town's people.

"You've no idea what she went through living here. She had two friends, me and the old man, and even that was denied her when the man's daughter decided that Lisa was not the type she wanted her father to be acquainted with."

"I'm not saying that there aren't a lot of bigots here. I'm just saying that not everyone feels that way. I for one could care less about the color of a person's skin or even the country they come from."

That statement silenced the Russian almost immediately.

"I didn't mean to imply that everyone living in OakWood was a bigot," the Russian said quietly. "Just that there are too many of them."

"You know one day, I believe people will change. We'll all live in harmony and no one would even believe that people once thought differently." Solo said with conviction.

"I hope so. I've lived with my fair share of prejudice in my time in the west. You know that Klan leader wasn't too happy when they discovered I was Russian. I kept a close eye on them whenever I was in town."

Solo cast a sharp eye on his friend. "You never told me that. I would never have purchased the house if I had known they were a threat to you. In fact I didn't even know they were here when I bought the house. I'm sorry Tovarish."

"It's not your fault. Besides, if you looked for a house away from all the narrow-minded bigots of the world, you would never have found one."

The truth of the statement settled in the car. And then the atmosphere charged with tension as they approached Roy's house.

"I never told her that I loved her," the Russian said, staring intently at the house as Solo parked the car.

"I'm sure she knew," Napoleon said.

Illya leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "If I had it to do over again, I would tell her. I was just so afraid of losing her."

They were quiet for a few minutes. Solo knew his friend was trying to gather his strength to go back into the house.

"You stay here, I'll question Roy."

Illya opened his eyes, smiling indulgently at Solo. "Thanks, but I must do this."

"I understand," Solo said.

Illya opened his door and headed for the house, Solo following closely behind.

The two agents found Roy sitting on the porch swing staring at a picture of Lisa. He looked up when he heard their approach. Illya sat next to the man, noticing how much he seemed to have aged in the last few days.

"Roy, why don't you come and stay with me? It can't be easy staying here with all the memories."

"It's all I have left. I won't leave it." Roy said, pain evident in each word.

Napoleon sat in a chair opposite Roy. He looked at the two men, both suffering at the loss of a woman.

"Mr. White we're going to find the person who killed Lisa. Is there anything you know that may be important? Some person who hated Lisa, for example." Solo said.

Roy looked incredulously at Napoleon. "It would be easier to give you a list of people who liked Lisa. Most people around here hated her. Hated what she was."

Napoleon knew Roy was telling the truth. He had gone to his store on many occasions in the past. Before Lisa moved here people would gather at the store and enjoying the country atmosphere. There was always someone around telling Roy about their children or the football game they just won. And then Lisa had arrived. Suddenly, people who shopped there only did so because the nearest store was almost ten miles away. No one spoke to him for more than a few seconds. He was an isolated, lonely man. Now he regarded him. The price he had paid for staying in OakWood was high, too high.

"May I go up and look at Lisa's room," Illya asked. "There may be something the sheriff's office missed."

"Sure, Illya, her room has been cleaned, but maybe…"

Napoleon looked expectantly at the Russian. He didn't think it was a good idea. Not after the last time when the Russian mentally collapsed. Still, he knew there was little he could do to stop the blond.

Illya stood and headed for the stairs, Napoleon followed closely behind.

"Are you sure this is a good idea. I mean, I could go in there, take a look around. You can stay downstairs with Roy."

"No, I must see for myself. I've got to do this, Napoleon." Illya headed up the stairs.

The two men stood before the closed door of Lisa's room. The smell of antiseptic permeated the air, indicating the room had been cleaned after the police had gathered their evidence. Now, Illya reached for the door knob, turning it and entering the room.

Napoleon entered the room first. It was a small and simply decorated. A twin sized bed sat perched between two nightstands. A large painting of a beach hung on the wall. The rug was a dark burnish orange with tiny splatters of brown near the bed. It took Solo a few minutes to realize the splatters were Lisa's blood. He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and turned to see a very pale Illya holding onto the door. Illya was shaking, trying to get control of his breath. Napoleon grabbed his arm, leading him away from the door and onto a chair in the hall. Napoleon pushed his head down between his legs, telling him to try to breath steadily. Illya steadied his breathing and his breath returned to a normal pattern.

He looked up at Napoleon. "Sorry," he said.

"Its okay" Ah… Illya… this is too much for you. I'll go in. You just stay here."

Illya looked gratefully at his friend. "I guess I don't have a choice, considering."

Napoleon turned and walked back to Lisa's bedroom. The first thing he did was to examine the red stains on the carpet. It was blood, splattered on most of the rug. He looked in a corner of the room and found a portrait of Lisa. Napoleon was saddened that such a young, lovely woman's life had ended so tragically. Somehow the portrait brought her alive. He wished that he had taken the time to get to know her better. He had met her when she first came to town. She was vibrant, always smiling and she seemed to love her father, always doting on him. Now she was dead and the hopes and dreams of a young woman destroyed forever.

Napoleon looked under the bed and discovered a box. He pulled the box out and opened it, discovering numerous books written in French. He pulled some of the books out and discovered several small notebooks. The notebooks were written in French, probably diaries. Solo wondered at the shoddy police work that had allowed the box to remain, untouched beneath her bed. But then this was a small town and the officers not trained to handle a murder case. He picked up the box and headed out of the room.

**Chapter Nine**

It was late in the evening. Both agents were sitting in the library in the two chairs that sat near the fireplace. Illya had recovered and was reading Lisa's diary. Occasionally, he would make a comment about the contents. Listen, he'd said to Solo on one occasion. This is about Lisa's planned trip to America.

_America. They call it the land of opportunity. I wonder. Would their be opportunity for me, or is the Great American dream something reserved for other people. Still, I'm excited. I will see my father and live in his house. _

There were other diary entries about how she had been treated in OakWood. About the Klan and their threats to her. About how Roy had to physically restrain one man when he found out Roy had a black daughter. But then there had been Mr. Finch, the old man that she often photographed. She wrote of how he lived with his daughter in a rambling old house. Lisa wrote about how he'd been burned during a bombing in WWII and his life had been instantly altered. She wrote about how the old man had been treated. His wife left him with a young daughter to rear. She couldn't bear to live with the scars. The old man lost all of his friends. Most had deserted him when his physical appearance was no longer appealing, and so he lived with his daughter, sad and alone.

Mr. Finch had come to OakWood in the 1950s. He'd hoped for a new life, maybe some friends. But that was not to be. At least not until Lisa came along. Lisa wrote of the friendship she shared with him. She saw in him a man who could understand the stares, the isolation, even if it was for a different reason. Lisa wrote about Mr. Finch, telling his story. And then the daughter had found out and put an end to the relationship. Lisa wrote of the pain she felt at losing the friendship of the man, not for herself, but for him.

_He is alone now. The daughter has ended our relationship and thus, the only friendship he has in this town. I feel so sorry for him. He is old and doesn't have many years left. I was the only friend he had. How long must we who are different suffer before the world opens its eyes and realizes that we are all equal? That God created us in his image._

Illya closed his eyes. He could hear the soft crackle of the fire. Smell the scent of burning wood. But he was no longer in the room with Napoleon. He was miles away remembering when he had suffered because he was different. He spoke in soft tones as he related the story to his friend for the first time.

"I was just a little boy, no more than seven at the time. The Nazi's came, killed my family. Left me with nothing but the clothes on my back. I saw my people starving in the streets. Men, women, children crying in the night as they watched each other die. I cried till there were no more tears left. And then he came. He gave me food, water, a place to live. He treated me like I was dirt under his feet. He fed me, then beat me. He made me watch as my people died around me. His was the first language I learned. He taught me, taught me well. All the while, making sure I knew that I was nothing, that I was worthless. And the only reason he kept me around was for his amusement."

Napoleon sat in stunned silence. He didn't know what to say. Never before had he seen Illya in such pain. He watched the Russian as he spoke, his voice monotone, his hands sitting limply on his lap, his eyes open, but far away, in Russia during World War II.

"You call it World War II, but we Russians call it The Great Patriotic War. The Nazi's were not kind to us. When they invaded France they didn't plan to kill the entire population. But they considered us inferior, so they killed millions of us. Millions, Napoleon, no one knows the exact figures. They were men, women, and children. They died for what? To prove the superiority of one group over another?"

Illya stood, walking to the fireplace. He stood there looking into the flames. "I survived, but I died a million deaths. I'm still dying now."

Napoleon stood and crossed the room. He looked at his friend as the Russian fought for control. Illya had never been comfortable showing his emotions. He'd hidden them from most at UNCLE, only revealing them to Napoleon on rare occasions. But now this was one of those occasions. The Russian needed him now more than ever. He needed to know that he was loved and that his nationality meant only that he had been born in a different place.

Without speaking, Napoleon reached for him, pulling him into his arms. The Russian cried, his body yielding to the pain he had suffered so long ago and so recently.

**Chapter Ten**

Napoleon had prepared Illya's favorite breakfast. Tea with jelly, and bacon and eggs. The Russian sat across from him eating hungrily.

"You know, I'm convinced this was a hate crime. I think we need to go to the Klan headquarters and ask some questions." Illya said.

"What about Dodd. You said you had a fight with him recently. He may have been angry enough to do something." Solo said.

"No, he was pretty frightened of me. I don't think he would do anything to Lisa, least of all while I was still in town."

Napoleon considered it. "True. I've seen you when you get angry. But I think we need to check every possibility, no matter how remote."

"Well. I think we have to consider Carolyn as well. She was pretty angry when I ended the relationship."

"How angry?" Napoleon asked, his eyes meeting Illya's.

"Angry enough to make some threats. None of which I took seriously. She also attacked me."

"Attacked you. You didn't tell me that."

"I wasn't exactly proud. I had pursued Carolyn against my better judgment. We hadn't met under the best circumstances."

Napoleon remembered the circumstances. Carolyn had unwittingly become a pawn in the hands of Thrush. Thrush had come up with the ultimate plan of eliminating UNCLE as a Threat. It was a good one—make sex slaves out of every UNCLE agent till all they wanted was sex. The Russian had been one of the victims and Carolyn the seductress.

UNCLE soon put an end to the plan, making the Thrush devise ineffective. Illya had continued his relationship with Carolyn much to Napoleon's surprise. It sounded like something he would have done—sleeping with the enemy. The Russian had always been more level headed, warning him about his relationship with Angelique. Still, for a while, Illya had seemed to be falling in love with Carolyn and then of course, Lisa came along.

"So how did she attack you," Napoleon asked with concern.

"Slapped me mostly, tried to throw a few things at me. I got out unharmed."

"Still, she might have flown here and killed Lisa. A woman scorned…"

"Yes. I'll check on her whereabouts. Afterwards, we'll pay a visit to Klan headquarters."

"No. You'll check on Carolyn. I'll pay a visit to Klan headquarters."

Illya took a bite of his toast. "So why can't I go?"

"Because, we want information, not a confrontation."

Illya sat straight in his chair. "I'm perfectly capable of getting information without a confor…,"

"You are, but the Klan has never been known to avoid confrontations and they hate Russians. No. You'll stay here and I'll go. That's an order."

Illya took a sip of coffee. "We're not on official UNCLE business. You can't make it an order."

"I can and I'll make it stick if I have to tie you to the chair, Tovarish."

Illya locked eyes with Napoleon. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Good," Napoleon said getting up from the table. "You check on Carolyn's whereabouts."

"You be careful," Illya admonished. "They know you're my friend. They won't take too kindly to a Soviet sympathizer. Maybe you should even take the sheriff."

Napoleon took a sip of coffee and headed for the telephone.

Two hours later Napoleon and the sheriff sat across the desk from Tom Horton the leader of the OakWood branch of the Ku Klux Klan. Tom Horton was a young man with the all around good looks of a football player. He sipped coffee as he eyed the two agents with his brown eyes, his blond hair glistening in the sunlight that streamed in through the open window above his desk.

"Where were you the night Lisa White was killed?" the sheriff asked.

"Right here, of course. We had a rally that night."

"You mean a membership drive," the sheriff countered.

"You can call it that if you want," the man sat back in the chair, smiling confidently.

"Did you kill Lisa White?" Solo asked impatiently.

"You mean that …..,"

The sheriff slammed his hand on the desk, startling Tom and Solo. "I gonna tell you right now, I'll have no name calling here. You will call her Miss White or Lisa, you understand that." The sheriff's face was red with anger. Tom stammered, obviously affected by the outburst. Napoleon was glad he had invited the sheriff along. He could clearly see that he had an allay should anything happen.

"Okay. Okay, I get it. But we didn't kill Lisa. She wasn't worth the time. Nowadays, we've got bigger fish to fry than some half-black girl of Roy's."

Solo leaned forward, getting in Tom's face. "I want proof. You got any?"

Tom smiled confidently. "Yeah. I've got a film with the mayor himself attending our little rally. I can show it to you if you like?"

Napoleon was shocked, but didn't show it. "Yeah, I like."

Napoleon viewed the tape in Horton's office. The mayor was clearly seen on the tape, along with other prominent citizens of OakWood. Napoleon was sickened, the tape and the mayor would provide an alibi for Horton but the man could still be lying. There was nothing on the tape to indicate the date or the time.

Later, Napoleon and the sheriff went to the mayor's office. The mayor claimed to have attended the rally only to make sure the group was not up to mischief. Napoleon wasn't sure he believed him, but the mayor was not his problem. Finding proof of who murdered Lisa was.

Solo asked if anyone had left the rally. The mayor insured him that there were only ten people in attendance and he would have surely noticed if one of them had left.

Solo left the mayors office and headed to Mr. Finch's house. He thought maybe Lisa had shared some information with him, considering the two had been friends for some time. The sheriff accompanied Solo to the house. He wanted to be completely involved in the investigation and Solo welcomed the company of the tall red-head. Solo had considered going back and getting Illya for this leg of the investigation. Still the Russian was too close to the situation and he lacked his usual analytical abilities. It had to be hard to investigate the murder of the woman you loved.

Solo focused his eyes on the road. The Finch's lived at least ten miles from Napoleon in what could only be described as the poorer part of town. He surveyed the neighborhood as he drove. Gone were the spectacular Victorian homes in favor of small homes that could only be described as shacks.

Napoleon stopped before the Finch home. It was a small, white frame building with a tiny porch and roses going around the front of the house. He and the sheriff got out of the car and headed to the front door.

"I hate to come here," the sheriff remarked as they approached the door.

"Why?" Solo asked.

"Have you seen him? He's so fragile and he and Lisa were friends. It's gonna be a tough for him."

"Yeah," Napoleon said, his eyes cast downward.

"I hope his daughter is here," Solo added.

"Probably is. She's been sticking pretty close to him lately. Not even allowing him out of the house."

Solo knocked on the door. He heard the slow approach of footsteps and half expected to see Mr. Finch. Instead a dark-haired woman opened the door. She was in her thirties with piercing blue eyes and her hair pulled into a severe bun. She was plan—a woman who would never be beautiful and knew it. She stared questioningly at the Napoleon for an instant then to the Sheriff.

"Good Afternoon Karen. We have a few questions to ask your father if he's available."

"You mean about Lisa?" she asked, standing at the door as if she might shut it in their faces any moment.

The sheriff indicated Solo. "This is Mr. Solo. He's helping with this investigation. We need to speak to anyone who knew Lisa. It's my understanding that she and your father were once close."

"Yes, once. But I had to put an end to it. She simply was too much excitement for the my father. He is not a well man, as you know Sheriff."

Karen said the last part while looking at Solo.

Napoleon had planned to let the Sheriff take the lead in this part of the questioning, but he could clearly see that Karen Finch was not about to cooperate.

"We need to speak to him, Miss Finch." Solo smiled which would have melted the hearts of most women. Karen merely stared back at him. Solo cleared his throat and continued, "He may still have information that may lead us to his killer."

Solo watched as Karen steeled her body. "I will not put my father in danger for a woman who is already dead. A woman who was murdered. I will thank you both to leave my property now."

Solo was prepared to argue, but Karen spoke again, her voice harsh,"Unless you have a search warrant, I suggest you find someone else to help with your investigation."

"Miss, Finch," the sheriff started. "It will only take a few moments and…"

"Court order gentlemen," she repeated. And the door was slammed in their faces.

**Chapter Eleven**

Solo returned home that night tired and dejected. A whole day of searching for information and nothing had been accomplished.

The Russian was sitting in the library reading over more of the diaries when Napoleon entered.

"So how did it go, Illya? Find anything?"

"Nothing. Carolyn was at her sister's wedding. No way she could have gotten here and then killed Lisa."

"You sure?"

"Positive. The sister married a man in Japan. That's at least a fifteen hour flight. No she's not the one. What about the Klan?"

"They've got film and the mayor to vouch for their whereabouts. It seems our little hate group had a membership rally."

"A membership rally?"

"Yes, mostly unsuccessful. Only a few people attended."

"Damn," the Russian said, slapping the diary on the table and pacing the floor.

"Then what do we have. Nothing. Three days and nothing."

Solo poured some vodka in two glasses, offering one to Illya who took it gratefully. The Russian sat back down in the chair and took a long swig from the glass.

"That leaves Dodd." Illya said.

"What's say we pay him a visit in the morning?"

Illya locked eyes with Solo. "How about late in the afternoon, I think I feel the need to get a little drunk my friend."

"Sounds like a plan." Napoleon got up and retrieved the bottle of Vodka. He sat the bottle between them. The two men spent the rest of the evening getting happily drunk.

The sharp banging on the door awakened both men. They were still in the library because they had been too drunk to walk up the stairs.

"My head, please tell whoever it is to stop knocking." Solo said.

"I don't think they can hear us," Illya said, clutching his head. "One of us will need to go to the door and insist they stop."

Solo sat forward in his chair then flopped helplessly back. "That will be you, Tovarish."

"Why me?"

"When my head stops hurting I'll figure that out and tell you."

Illya stood, rubbing his head. "You have any aspirins?"

"Yes, in my bedroom."

Illya headed for the door.

"Bring some back for me and please hurry and open that damned door." Napoleon said pleadingly.

Napoleon was lying back in the chair massaging his head when he heard a crashing sound. He hurried from the room and found a man and Illya fighting on the floor. The man was large with tattoos on his arm. Napoleon knew it had to be Dodd. He ran forward and broke up the two men. Dodd was practically hyperventilating as he stood

"How dare you. It's your fault she's dead. Your fault." He said between gasps. "If you hadn't come to town, she'll still be alive."

Illya was shaking with anger. Napoleon standing between them was all that kept the men apart.

"I believe you did it. You're the one that threatened us. Where were you on the night of her death? Were you at her house killing her?" the Russian shouted.

"No, damnit, don't you see I loved her." Dodd crumbled to the floor. "I loved her. That's why I was so angry when I saw you two together. I wanted to hurt her for rejecting me, but I would never kill her. Never."

The big man sat on the floor, his sad eyes seeking understanding. Illya watched incrediously.

"You've got a strange way of showing it." Illya said.

"I was afraid. Afraid of what people would say. I was afraid for her. If people saw us together… I'm a truck driver. I wouldn't always be here to protect her."

Illya looked at the man, the truth of the statement etched in his face. "He's right, Napoleon. She was killed because of me." He turned and left the room, heading upstairs.

Solo helped Dodd to his feet. "Get up. I've got questions."

Solo led him to the kitchen and prepared a fresh cup of coffee. Dodd sat there while the coffee brewed saying nothing, his eyes cast downward. Solo worried about his friend's hasty retreat until the Russian returned with the aspirins. Solo sat three cups of coffee on the table and sat down, swallowing the two aspirin with the strong brew.

"Can you prove your whereabouts, Mr. Dodd?" Solo asked.

"Yes. I'm a truck driver. Many people saw me at a hotel I frequent. I spent the night with a waitress I know. She can vouch for me."

"Okay. I will need her telephone number and address. Anyone else?"

"Yeah. Lots of people saw me at the restaurant."

Illya was silently drinking his coffee. Napoleon knew the Russian was still blaming himself. It was going to be a long night.

"You know anyone who would want to kill Lisa?"

"Yeah, the whole damned town. Most of it at least. The rest would stand idly by while it was done."

Illya winced at the words.

"Anyone specific?"

"The Klan. They're a small group, but you know their reputation," Dodd answered.

"We checked on them. Nothing, all present and accounted for." Solo replied.

"Then I don't know. Could be anyone. Someone we don't know maybe. How'd this person get in by the way?"

"Broke in," Illya said distractedly. "Broke in and shot her in the face."

Dodd noticeably pailed. "Not the face, she was so beautiful. Not the face."

"When did you find out," Napoleon asked.

"This morning, when I got in. Somebody told me at the coffee shop. Came right over here. Sorry about that." Dodd looked down at the table.

"Listen, if you guys don't have anymore questions, I need to get going." Dodd said.

"I can't think of anything. I'll check your alibi, but that's all." Solo said.

Dodd got up, looking at Illya who still sat at the table drinking his coffee. The Russian didn't meet his gaze.

Dodd turned and left the room, Solo leading the way.

Napoleon returned to the kitchen and found the Russian still sitting at the table, staring into his cup of coffee.

"He's right. I did this. It's my fault." Illya said slowly.

Solo took the chair opposite Illya. "We've been over this. It's not your fault. It's the killers fault."

"No. If I hadn't insisted on being seen with her. Going out in public. Defying the conventions of this town…"

"She may still be dead," Napoleon continued.

Illya looked expectantly at Solo. "We don't know that, do we? We still don't know who killed her and why."

"We'll find out." Solo insisted.

"Waverly, how much time is he going to give us to search for the killer?"

"I don't know. He's giving us time, that's all I know."

"I was a mess, wasn't I? I can believe I didn't even recognize you."

"You were in shock. Don't feel badly about that," Napoleon said.

Illya leaned his head into his hands. "What have I done? She may be dead because of me."

"Illya, we're going to find this killer. And it will be soon. I think the answer is not racially motivated. I think the answer is in her photographs or diaries. I took the liberty of stopping by Roy's on the way back today. He gave me an album of her photographs. I think it's there somewhere. We've just got to find it. How about we take a look?"

"I guess so, what else have we?"

Two hours later both men sat on the floor of the library looking through some of Lisa's photographs. Lisa had put them in an album. Napoleon noted that each picture told a story. The little girls dancing in the moonlight showed them when they arrived, how they spoke animatedly to each other and then finally danced, oblivious to the world around them.

And then there was the picture of the scarred old man. Lisa had devoted many pages to him. Napoleon was saddened by the pictures. The emotions of the man practically ripped through the page and assualted the viewer with his raw pain. Solo couldn't help but think how the man must have lived since the burns had ravaged his face and his life. What must he have been like before the burns?

He turned the page and saw a picture of Karen sitting with the old man. Solo recalled the story about the daughter and remembered how she had prevented him from questioning her father. He didn't mention it to Illya. He wanted him as far from the investigation as possible. He pictured what would have happened had the Russian accompanied him to the Finch house. Illya most likely would have barged into the house, court order be damned.

"I'm surprised she allowed this picture to be taken," Solo said, still looking at the picture.

"I told Lisa the same thing. It seems she was sitting in the park with Mr. Finch and Lisa took the picture. His daughter, I think her name is Karen, seemed happy enough to have her picture taken, but later told Lisa to stay away."

"Strange," Solo said. "Why would she suddenly change?"

Illya locked eyes with Napoleon. "You're not thinking she had anything to do with Lisa's murder?"

"No not at all. Just a thought. How's your hangover?" Napoleon asked changing the subject.

"Getting better. How is your's?

"I've seen better days," Solo replied. "

TBC


	3. Part 3

**Kindred Spirits**

**By M.Willow**

**Part Three**

**Chapter Twelve**

Little evidence was gathered in the coming days and Waverly was becoming anxious for the agents returned. Napoleon had searched Roy's house several times. He had spoken to Roy about the death threats. Still progress had not been made. Roy had not kept the death threats choosing to toss them instead. Now, Napoleon regarded Illya as they sat in the library. The Russian had taken his customary position, in the chair, next to the fireplace. He was reading another diary entry and it worried Solo. The case may never be solved and it was time for Illya to face it.

He stood up, and took the chair opposite Illya. "Illya. We need to talk."

"About Lisa's death? Have you found something?" Illya asked hopefully.

"No. And we may never find anything. You've got to face it."

Illya eyes became cold, angry. He said, "I will find who did this." He returned to reading the diary.

Napoleon was stung by the finality of the statement. "It's been over a month," he said slowly. We still have jobs to do. We can't stay here forever. Waverly is already starting to ask questions about when we'll return. I tell you what," Napoleon said hopefully. "We can come in the evening and work on it. I can make sure we don't get out of town missions."

"I'm not going back, Napoleon. Not until I find out who killed Lisa."

Napoleon was frustrated. "And what do you plan to tell Waverly," he said angrily. "Are you going to tell him that you're too busy solving one case, to hell with the rest of the world, with Thrush?"

Illya's eyes narrowed. "I don't care. I'm staying here."

"And if Waverly insist on your return?" Napoleon asked.

"Tell him he can have my resignation." Illya stood up and started walking out of the library, diaries in hand. Napoleon grabbed his arm.

"What the hell are you thinking? You're ready to throw away an entire career, our partnership, maybe be sent back to Russia. For what? Even if you find the killer, it won't bring her back" Napoleon said and immediately regretted the words.

Illya snatched his arm away. "I will find him. I will find him and he will pay."

Napoleon looked at his friend. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Listen. I know you loved her, but she's gone and nothing you can do will bring her back. You think she would want to see you destroy yourself? Your career?"

Illya's clear blue eyes met his. Illya turned and walked out of the library.

Illya fell asleep with a diary in his hands and dreamed of midnight blue eyes. He could smell the faint scent of her perfume. See her as if she were still alive. He reached for her and she dissolve into nothingness. He awoke with a start, fighting to control the scream that wanted to erupt. For the past few weeks he dreamed of her nearly every night. The dream always started with her being alive and ended with her death. He opened the diary he still had in his hands. He had read all of them before, but he couldn't stop reading her diary. They somehow brought her back to life.

He read one of her entries that was in English:

_The old man was sitting there, in the park, waiting for me. He was dressed in a pale gray suit, and I knew that he wanted me to take a picture of him. I approached and he smiled. We talked about so many things. He was so happy when I took his picture. He smiled for hours afterwards. _

_We sat on that park bench most of the afternoon. And then I had to go. _

Illya touched the clear lines that represented Lisa's handwriting. He regretted the argument with Napoleon. His friend was only trying to help him. Napoleon had risked a lot by staying here and helping him solve the murder. He felt guilty that he had repaid his friend by arguing with him. An apology was in order and an explanation. He had to admit that Napoleon was right—they may never solve this case, yet how could he live with himself if they never did. He still loved Lisa, loved her as he had loved no other woman.

Sometimes he fantasized about kissing her sweet lips, holding her in his arms, making love with her. He was obsessed and he knew it. He looked at the clock. There was little doubt that Napoleon was asleep, but he was desperate. He needed to talk to his best friend. And then he heard the door open and Napoleon stood there.

"I saw your light on and I thought… Well, I'm sorry, Illya. I shouldn't have said those things earlier. I mean… I"

"No. I'm sorry. You were right." Illya said.

"You want to talk?" Napoleon asked, taking a seat on the bed.

"Yes." "I need to talk about something, but it's hard, even after all this time."

Illya paused then continued "When I met Lisa, I felt that she was a kindred spirit. Here was someone who had suffered, who had struggled for survival in spite of the odds. She reminded me of what I had gone through years ago, when I was a child."

Napoleon was silent as his friend continued to talk.

"It was not easy. My family had been killed by the Nazis. I was alone and only seven years old. My parents had been very loving, yet in one brief second they were gone and there was no one. You see, nobody wanted me. I had aunts and uncles, but they had their own family to protect. So I lived on the streets."

Illya paused. "The Nazis hated all Russians. They made my life hell in many ways, they called me sub-human. They said that I did not deserve to live. They made a sport of seeing that I didn't."

Napoleon watched Illya, watched him fight for control of his emotions. He was losing. The room was silent except for the steady ticking of the clock. Napoleon moved closer to Illya, placing his hand on his shoulder.

The Russian continued. "One man. One man, in particular hated me. His name was Kessler. I can still remember the cold blue eyes, the way he used to twirl his watch around. I had been captured and forced to serve in a concentration camp. He was one of the top men there. He would beat me Napoleon, beat me till I cried for death. He was a cruel man, a man who craved power and enjoyed exploiting what little he had." Illya shuddered. "I still have nightmares about him, even now."

Napoleon didn't know what to say. Illya was in pain. A pain born of years of suffering. He listened as his friend continued.

"He did things to me. Unspeakable things. Things that no child should suffer through."

Illya took a deep breath, holding it, his body shaking at the memory. "He didn't stop until he was ordered back to Germany and left me to the mercy of others. For years I was afraid of intimacy…with a woman. For years I questioned my sexuality. Illya stopped talking for a second, looking at nothing in particular. "Do you know what it's like to question your masculinity because someone…someone… I was so ashamed. Ashamed that people knew just by looking at me. Feeling that I deserved every bit of hatred the world had to offer because of what he made of me. I was ashamed to tell even you, my best friend. I couldn't bear to see the disgust in your eyes if you knew. To see you turn away."

Illya stopped talking and Napoleon reached for him only to see him stand and walk to the window. "In time, I learned how to forget my past, to move on, to have a woman in my life and appreciate her. But I never found love. Not till Lisa."

Illya turned and looked out the window. "And now that has been taken from me and I don't know how to continue to live without her."

Napoleon slowly approached his friend. "Illya look at me."

Illya continued to look out the window.

"Look at me, Tovarish."

Illya turned and met Napoleon's eyes.

"I have nothing but respect for you. When you look at my eyes, you would never see me turn away or look at you with disgust. You're my best friend, my brother. I don't ever want you to feel ashamed. Never. What happened… what happened was not your fault. You're not to blame, Illya. Know that as I know it."

Illya stood there and the tears ran down his face. He didn't try to hide them nor turn away from his friend's eyes. "You don't know what that means to me. You've no idea," he said, his voice low.

"I just wish there was some way to erase what happened to you, to Lisa. I know that I can't, but allow me to help you. To help you get through this."

Illya turned and faced the window. Napoleon put his hands on Illya's shoulder.

"It could mean that both of us will be unemployed, you know." Illya said slowly.

"Yeah, but we are UNCLE's finest. I'll talk to Waverly tomorrow. Explain how important this is, to you, to us. He'll listen."

"And what if Waverly declines to allow such a leave?" Illya asked.

"Well, then, in the words of my best friend, he can have my resignation."

**Chapter Thirteen**

From Lisa's diary:

_The old man talked about his past. It's strange that we have become friends. And, yet, we are. We meet everyday in the park. I still don't know his history. He keeps that part a secret for some reason. Tomorrow he said he will tell me. _

It had been two months since Lisa's death and Illya and Napoleon had moved to OakWood to investigate the case full-time. Money and time was running out. Napoleon had to resort to using money from his trust fund in order to buy the bare necessities. Waverly had been somewhat understanding when Napoleon had requested leave for both of them. He'd finally granted it when Napoleon told him that the Russian would be of little help in the field in his present condition.

The two agents worked exclusively on the case. April had come by earlier in the month to see if she could use her psychic abilities to help solve the case, but could sense nothing. In fact, since she had never met Lisa, it was like looking at a blank wall. Finally she had left, mostly through the insistence of Waverly. He simply could not have all of his top agents taking leave especially on a case that was going nowhere and had nothing to do with world security. And then the first glimmer of a clue revealed itself in the form of Lisa's diary.

Illya had read all of the diaries, but then one day Roy came with another one that he had found hidden in a secret compartment of Lisa's closet. Illya had devoured the book in one afternoon. He noticed that there was a break in the diary entries. Lisa had always recorded something each day, even if it was just a sentence. This time, however, a week had gone by before another entry appeared. Illya had figured that she was working on her photographs during this time. But her final entry told a different story.

_How do I tell Illya without destroying him? God has forgiven the man for his sins. He has accepted Christ, but how do I continue to see him in the same way after what I know? And without betraying Illya?_

Illya wondered what Lisa had discovered and had it been the cause of her death?

Illya decided to hide the diary from Napoleon. He didn't want to share this information with Solo. He was getting closer and didn't want his friend involved. He vowed to find a way to get Solo to leave. Perhaps convincing him that he should return to work.

Now he sat in the kitchen, photographs and diaries spread all over the table, listening to Solo speculate on who killed Lisa.

"I don't believe she was murdered because of her race," Napoleon said taking a sip of coffee.

Illya felt a pang of guilt because he knew he hadn't given Solo all the information. Illya poured some tea into a cup and took a teaspoon of jelly stirring it into the tea absently.

"Okay. Let's retrace her steps during the last days of her life." Napoleon said.

Illya tensed. "We spent most of the day together, but I don't know what she did at night. I don't think she took pictures anywhere, but she may have."

Napoleon cleared his throat nervously for the next question.

"Did she seem anxious to get rid of you? You said you left early. Any reason?"

"No. We both agreed to call it a night and think about our relationship. We were planning to meet the next day to discuss it."

Illya looked down at one of the pictures.

"Was Roy there?" Napoleon asked.

"No. He was still at the store. He usually stayed late whenever I was visiting Lisa. Probably to give Lisa and I some privacy. We couldn't go back to my place."

"Why not?"

Illya looked up sharply as if deciding if an insult had been given. When he saw there was none he answered. "She was a lady, Napoleon. And a lady does not go to a gentlemen's house."

"I'm sorry, Tovarish. I had to ask. I needed to make sure she wasn't expecting someone and needed for you to leave early."

"The only person she was expecting was her father, Napoleon."

Illya returned to looking at the pictures that were strewn all over the table.

"Maybe we should look at Roy's house once more. Could be more diaries or something else that could offer a clue."

Illya rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "I don't think anything else will be found there." He said simply.

Napoleon rose from the chair. "You're probably right," He stretched, fighting the stiffness of sitting for so many hours.

"I think I'll talk to Roy anyhow. You never know."

Illya abruptly stood his eyes meeting Napoleon's. "I'll go. You stay here and look at the pictures. Maybe there's something we missed."

Napoleon seemed surprised, but sat down at the table again looking through the pictures.

"You sure? I don't mind going."

"No, Napoleon. I need to do this. Alone," he said, the note of finality evident in his voice.

Illya sat in the living room speaking to Roy. He hadn't planned to come here, but he didn't want Napoleon to get suspicious. Now, he became fascinated as Roy brought out more of Lisa's pictures of Mr. Finch. Illya was surprised at how many pictures Lisa had been allowed to take of the old man. Most pictures were taken in the park, but a few were taken in the house the man shared with his daughter.

Illya looked at the pictures while Roy went to prepare tea. One picture captured Illya's attention. The old man was standing in front of a church. He was smartly dressed in a gray suit and held a bible in his left hand. He seemed so fragile, his body hunched with pain.

"That was Lisa's favorite," Roy said as he returned, sitting the steaming mug of tea before Illya. "Lisa had finally got Mr. Finch to attend church. He hadn't gone in years, saying he wasn't worthy. "

"When was this picture taken?" Illya asked.

"Mmm, about a few weeks before she died. I remember it well. Lisa had taken that bible he's holding to see him in the park. She gave it to him after he confessed to her. Lisa was a very religious girl. It had taken her months to convince Mr. Finch that he could be forgiven for his sins, no matter what they were. Finally he believed and accepted Christ. The next week they went to church together. Then that shrew of a daughter found out and put an end to the entire relationship. So sad."

Illya sat there listening to Roy as he continued to talk about what an evil woman Karen had been. He clutched the picture of the old man and looked at him, really looked. What he saw caused him to stand abruptly, spilling tea, and heading for the door. Roy called after him, but Illya didn't hear, his mind had gone back to time when he had been an innocent seven year old boy. Illya had said nothing as he left the house, but he knew. Knew with the core of his being when he saw the eyes. How had he missed it before? But he knew the answer. The scars were so devastating that he hadn't taken the time to really look at the man. The burns had destroyed him physically, changing his features and the way he walked. Age had done the rest, giving him stooped shoulders and grey hair, but he was still Kessler, no matter what he called himself now.

Illya recalled the proud baring Kessler once had. The way he twirled his watch as he walked through the concentration camp. The way he sat it on the bedside table when he came to him.

Illya drove the car with abandonment. He scarcely noticed how fast he was driving. He didn't care. All he could see was the man who destroyed his life, who took Lisa away from him. It was near dusk, the sky had turned an orange-yellow color. Illya looked at the gun lying so close to him in his car. Somehow the old man had caused Lisa's death. Somehow the man who now called himself Finch would pay. He would see to it.

Illya's hands tightened on the steering wheel as his mind wandered back to a little blond boy whose innocence was so boldly taken. He felt the icy grip of hatred overtake him as the tears stung his eyes. He wondered how Napoleon would feel once he found out what he was about to do. He was happy his friend was not aware of this turn of events. He would spare him the knowledge of what had to be done. Kessler was a murderer. How many innocent children had he destroyed? How many lived as he had lived—ashamed. His life had been permanently altered by him. He had spent a great deal of his life, afraid and alone. Wanting to be touched, to share an intimacy, but afraid because there was always Kessler. Always Kessler. Now he had the chance to get revenge and he would take that revenge at all cost. He would right what should have been done years ago— during the trial. But men like Kessler ran in the night and they lived normal lives.

Illya pulled up to the house and observed the neighborhood for witnesses. He got out of the car and headed to the door. He approached the door and then opened it without knocking. He heard the tick of an old grandfather clock as he entered and saw Kessler's daughter sitting by the fire knitting. Illya was struck by the innocence of the woman. In a short time, her father would be dead, and she, free to lead the life she probably desired--away from this house of rotting wood and darkness. He wondered if she, too, was a woman destroyed by Kessler. Her sole purpose in life was seeing to his needs. Seeing to the needs of an old man, destroyed by the ravages of fire and time. Illya wondered if he could take the life of a man while his daughter watched. And then what of the daughter? Should he act as a cold blooded murderer and destroy all witnesses? But then, he knew he would not. Kessler was his only target. He would see to his death and turn himself in. He didn't care what happened afterwards.

The daughter looked up as if she were expecting him. She showed no surprise as he approached. She merely looked at him and returned to her knitting as if he were merely visitor coming down to have tea.

"I see you have arrived, Mr. Kuryakin," she said, her attention focused on the yarn she held. "I knew that it would not be long. A man of your talents would certainly figure it out?"

Illya wondered what she meant. She seemed so calm as if she expected the inevitable to happen. Perhaps lived for it.

"So you are Karen Kessler, I presume?" Illya said.

"He is an old man. An old man who has more than suffered for his crimes. Don't you think?"

"He could die a million deaths and never pay for his crimes," Illya said taking a seat on the sofa across from the dark-haired woman, the gun concealed in his hand.

Karen looked up. I wanted to kill you too, but of course it would prove difficult considering your allegiance with UNCLE. I wrongly figured I would simply wait it out. Surely you had a life to go back to. But no, you remained here and I waited nightly for your appearance."

Illya could hear the faint trace of a German accent as she spoke.

"My father has killed no one." The woman continued, her eyes finally meeting Illya's. "At least not recently. I am the one who took the life of your paramour."

Illya's face remained a mask, but inside he felt the rage well up, threatening to overtake his cool demeanor. He hated Karen, hated her for what she had done. He felt the need that justice be done for the life she had taken. But, he didn't want to kill her. His object was still Kessler for it was he who created the monster who sat before him now.

Karen returned to her knitting. "I suppose you want to see that justice is served," she said, her hands working the needle in and out of its target.

"Why did you kill her?"

"Because my father confessed," Karen said. "Confessed as if he had nothing to fear. And Lisa forgave him. She actually read from the bible and told him all his sins were forgiven, darn fool. But I couldn't take the chance. Even now he is a hunted man. If his identity is revealed, he will be sent to jail."

Illya wanted to yank her from her seat. He watched as she smoothly continued her knitting as if she spoke of the weather and not her callous taking of another's life.

"So you killed her to stop her from talking."

"Yes," the woman spoke with a monotone voice. "You see, he has paid for his sins. Look at him," Karen said behind Illya. Illya followed her eyes and saw Kessler standing in the doorway.

Kessler advanced into the room, his puckered skin seeming impossibly tight as he stood there.

"You are Illya Kuryakin," he said in German. "I remember you well. I had hoped that you would not recognize me."

Illya bowed his head and for an instant he didn't see the scars and it was just Kessler standing there as he had been nearly thirty years ago. His breath caught as he found himself raising his gun and walking toward the man who had stolen so much from him and yet lived here in this quiet suburb of OakWood.

"You…you took my life. You…I.." Illya stopped talking. He had no words to say. Was he capable of murder? But he knew the answer. He raised the gun then he heard the click of another.

"You will die here, Mr. Kuryakin," he heard the hard voice of Karen say behind him. Somehow Illya wasn't afraid. So many times he had looked death in the face and survived.

"Get the gun," Karen ordered and the old man approached and took the gun from Illya's hand. Illya turned and faced Karen. The final moments of his life loomed so close, yet Illya was incapable of feeling anything but rage. He wanted revenge. He wanted to see this man die.

"Bring it to me," Karen commanded and Kessler walked towards her.

Kessler spoke to his daughter, "You were all that I had. All that I would ever have. Fresh, clean, without sin. Yet you soil me with this murder."

"How can you say that?" Karen said, the gun pointed menacingly toward Illya. "She would have destroyed you. Destroyed you. I did it for you Papa. And I will kill him for you."

The old man shouted. "Don't you see? I was already destroyed. I've done things. Evil things. Things I would have continued to do had it not been for the fire. I have asked the Lord for forgiveness and he granted it, but I shall not find forgiveness on this earth. Now you have joined me in this private hell. Well it stops here. I won't see you become what I once was."

Karen held the gun, but her hands were shaking. "You'll forgive me, father. I know you will. But first I must eliminate the only man left who knows. I must kill him."

Illya braced himself as he watched Karen aim the gun; saw the old man walking towards her. And then he heard the inevitable shot and Karen crumbled to the floor.

Kessler fell to the floor, dropping the gun. Illya was stunned. He had expected to die, knew that he was a dead man, yet Kessler had saved his life by killing his own daughter. The old man crawled to his daughter and cradled her in his arms, tears streaming down his scarred face.

Illya slowly advanced and retrieved the gun. Karen was dead, but the rage still boiled in him. How could one woman's death account for all he had lost? He backed up, the gun raised in his hand. He heard a sound at the door and knew Napoleon was standing there without turning around.

"How did you know, Napoleon?" Illya asked.

"Roy called. I figured it out after he told me what you two had been talking about before you left."

"What happened Illya?" Napoleon asked, coming into the room, and meeting his friends eyes.

Illya told his friend about Kessler. Told him how he shot and killed his own daughter. He took quick glimpses at Kessler as the man sat still cradling his daughter.

"He must pay, Napoleon. Pay with his life for what he has done." Illya said raising the gun.

"Not like this. Illya give me the gun." Napoleon said, his hand outstretched.

"No, Napoleon. He has taken everything from me. Everything that mattered."

"No he hasn't. You still have a life here. Please don't do this." Napoleon pleaded.

Kessler looked up. "I'm sorry for what I've done."

"Napoleon leave!" Illya ordered.

"I can't let you do this, Tovarish." Napoleon said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Then shoot me dead. It's the only thing that can stop me."

Napoleon removed his gun and aimed it at the Russian. Their eyes locked for a few minutes and then the Russian turned his back and again raised the gun towards Kessler.

Kessler sat there his eyes filled with tears, but all Illya saw was the man he once knew. He heard a sound as Napoleon walked out of the room, closing the door softly as he departed.

"You must learn to forgive, Illya. It's the only true salvation," Kessler said rocking the body of his daughter

"Forgive. You're asking me to forgive you after what you've done?" Illya asked his voice hoarse with emotion. "How many children did you destroy? How many before the burns ended your ability…" Illya's hands were shaking, but Kessler never looked up, never looked at him.

"God will not forgive you if you can't forgive me. Don't you see, your very salvation is in danger." Kessler said weakly.

"I stopped believing in God a long time ago. You see, if there was a god, he would surely not have let something like you exist. You took everything from me. Everything. Now you come to me for forgiveness, well I have none to give." The rage Illya felt couldn't be contained. Nothing could stop him from killing Kessler outright. Kill him for everything he once was. Everything he was now.

Illlya raised the gun,, his heart was pounding. "It's time for you to die," he shouted, then released the safety.

Napoleon sat on the porch watching as the leaves swirled under the pale moon. He was powerless, powerless to pull the trigger to prevent Illya from murdering a man. Yes Kessler deserved it and much more. But what now? What now after Illya killed him? Could he simply go on, return to UNCLE as if nothing had ever happened. Could Napoloen live with the knowledge that he had done nothing to prevent him from doing it?

Napoleon looked up at the full moon as if the answer could be found there. He was not a praying man, but now he found himself asking God to step in that room and prevent his friend from killing a frail old man. In his mind he knew that Illya wouldn't pull the trigger. He knew the man who had emerged from the pain of his childhood. The man who stood by him in the field hoping to right the wrongs of society using the arm of the law. He simpy couldn't walk away from that—not even for Kessler. But Solo also had a glimps of the child. The child who was haunted by a man who took his innocence. It was the child who stood in the room with Kessler now.

Napoleon heard the sound of the door opening. He sat quietly as Illya joined him on the porch.

"Thank you, my friend for not pulling the trigger." Illya said.

"I had no choice. It would have been like killing myself." The statement hung in the air, enveloping the two men who stood there.

"So what's next?" Illya asked.

"We go home, Tovarish. We go home and talk and I help you get through this…if you let me."

Napoleon stood meeting Illya's gaze. He saw pain, love, and fear in the eyes of his best friend.

Illya breathed in the crisp air. "Yes, my friend. Let's go home. We have some phone calls to make."

Two weeks before his trial Johan Kessler killed himself. He was seventy-five years old.

For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.

—_Matthew 6:14-15_

Fin

Author notes:

The character of Carolyn was introduced in 'Insatiable'.

The character of Roy was introduced in 'The Hunt Affair'.

Of course the house was introduced in 'The Victorian House Affair'.


End file.
